A Little Bird
by Mestizaa
Summary: Set during the 6 months after Matthew's death. Carson and Hughes are tangoing over the line of propriety. O'Brien notices... WIP. Chap 5 up!
1. September

_Special thanks to Mona Love for letting me bounce ideas during the preliminary stages of this story. She is the reason this fic did not die on my hard drive._

_This story will include, and will not be limited to: Carson/Hughes UST, the Great Thomas-O'Brien Schism of '21, hurt/comfort, time-skips, rumours, half-truths and lies. And denial. Lots and lots of denial._

* * *

_**~ September 1921~**_

A long time ago, Elsie Hughes had learned a very important lesson: life was not, and nor would it ever be fair.

"Mother Nature has a cruel sense of humour," her mother had warned. "She plays cruel tricks on the unsuspecting, you best remember that."

Futures are built on shifting sands, she had always said. One brick out of place, and everything collapses into rubble.

"What about miracles?" a young Elsie had asked.

"Fairytales. Propaganda spread by the Catholic Church," her mother had answered. "Never trust an Irishman."

Her mother was a horribly cynical woman.

And while she was often more optimistic than her mother had ever been, Elsie Hughes could never deny that at times life was in fact unfair. She lived life for so long and she knew the ways of the world. The aches in her joints, the creases on her face and the callouses on the palms of her hands were indicative of some of the wear and tear her body had endured over her many years.

She knew the ways of the world. She would never get used to it.

Mr Carson had come down to her sitting room with a haunted look on his face and had asked her to help him round everybody up. In one fell swoop, he had announced the birth of a baby boy and the death of his father. All the joy on everybody's faces had been replaced with sorrow.

Another young man dead before his time.

Mrs Hughes spent that night wandering the corridors like a ghost. Her white nightgown and robe flowed easily with each of her careful movements as she tried to keep the jingling of her trusty ring of keys to a minimum. Her long hair was tied in braid tossed over her shoulder. She held a kerosene hand lamp in front of her to guide her, the soft orange light cutting through the darkness that had fallen. She walked barefoot on the hard wooden ground because he clicking of her shoes would only interrupt the little sleep the others were managing to get.

For she was not the only one to have trouble sleeping. Instead of tossing and turning continuously through the night, she would try to help the others because she knew that for her, sleep was a pointless endeavor.

Mrs Hughes had inadvertently startled a tearful Ivy in the pantry, and after reassuring the young girl that she was not in trouble, she sent her back to bed with a gentle hug. She found a sleepy Alfred sitting on the stairs so she tugged him by the hand and sent him back to his room.

It was the embers from Thomas' cigarette that gave away his position in the the otherwise dark dining hall.

"Hello, Mrs Hughes," he said as he flicked the end of his cigarette in his ash tray. "Have a seat."

She remained by the door surveying the scene in front of her. The young man struggled to light another cigarette with trembling hands. His normally perfect hair was mussed and sticking up in every direction possible.

"You should be in bed," she told him softly.

"And so should you."

With a defeated sigh, she sat next to him and placed the lamp on the table between them. Shadows danced across his face, illuminating his bruises from the fight at the fair.

Silence passed for a few seconds before Thomas broke it.

"This family is cursed."

"I wouldn't say that," Mrs Hughes tilted her head. "It's the natural order of things. Where there is life, there is death."

"Not like this," Thomas took a drag and slowly exhaled. "First, Lady Sybil. And now Mr Crawley. It can't be a coincidence." Another shaky drag. He was trying so hard to keep it all in. "They both deserved so much more."

Mrs Hughes noticed his gloved hand for the first time in a long time. He has had it for so long, it had become a part of him and she had forgotten. "You knew them both better than anyone here."

He nodded. He had fought alongside Matthew and he had worked with Sybil during the war. They were both wonderfully honourable people who consistently placed the needs of others before their own. Within the span of a year, they were both gone. He glanced bitterly at his gloved hand. They were so much better than him. "I owe them both so much."

"All you can do now is honour their memory and never let them be forgotten," she told him. "And cherish the children they left behind."

Thomas was mulling this over when Mrs Hughes stood up. "I have rounds to complete," she reached for his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Please try to get some sleep tonight, Thomas."

Any other time he would have corrected the use of his first name. He was now Mr Barrow, the Underbutler, and he deserved it damn it. But tonight, to Mrs Hughes, he was Thomas and that was alright.

"I'll _try,_" he concedes. Try is the key word.

Picking up her light, she maneuvered herself out of the dining hall, giving him a quick reassuring smile before exiting. She inspected the corridors and was satisfied when there was nobody lurking in the shadows. She continued on her way, only stopping when she came to a certain door with yellow light escaping from the bottom.

Of course he would be awake.

Not even bothering to knock, she pushed the door to the Butler's pantry open to find a dishevelled Mr Carson. He sat behind his desk pouring himself a glass of brandy. His robe was parted open, revealing the blue striped pyjamas that he wore underneath.

He glanced up wearily from his ministrations. "Ah, there you are, Mrs Hughes."

She shut the door quietly behind her and seated herself across from him, carefully placing her lamp on his desk. "You've been expecting me?"

He shook his head and his messy grey hair flopped over his eyes. "Not expecting," he brushed the hair out of the way. "Merely hoping." He grabbed a second empty short-stemmed glass. "Nightcap?" He had begun pouring the amber liquid before she could answer.

She cradled the wide bottom of the stemware in her lap and watched him lean back in his chair and take a sip of his drink. The dark bags under his puffy eyes cut her heart.

"Can't sleep?" She cringed at the the stupidity of the question leaving her lips. The onus of bearing the bad news had fallen onto him, and he had carried it as best he could. But now, he was crumbling. Of course he couldn't sleep.

In that moment she decided that if he needed her to keep him together, she would do so. If he needed her to catch him when he crumbled, she would do that too. She would always be there in whatever way he needed her to be.

"Everybody was so happy," he took another sip. "I had been so worried about Lady Mary; I didn't even think about her husband at all."

"It was an accident. A _freak _accident," she emphasized her words. "Nobody could have predicted it."

"It isn't fair."

"Life isn't fair, Mr Carson," she echoed the lesson her mother had taught her so many years ago. "But it will go on."

He finished off his brandy, and stifled a yawn. "You'd think I'd be used to that by now."

Before he could pour himself another, she placed her untouched drink on his desk. "We should try to get some rest," she stood and walked around to his side of the desk. Offering her hand to him, she pulled him up. "Come on, Ivy will be up soon to wake everybody."

He wobbled a bit as he stood and placed a hand on his desk to steady himself. Mrs Hughes instinctively looped her arm under his large frame to keep him from collapsing back in his seat.

"Goodness, how much have you had?" she teased lightly. She was not upset, far from it.

"Enough to make me tired." He opened his eyes once his dizzy spell had passed.

Mrs Hughes continued to hold him with her right arm. While Mr Carson knew it was completely unnecessary as his balance had returned, he let his left arm drape over her shoulders. Reaching over, he turned off his desk lamp and grabbed the hand lamp. Together, they shuffled to his room. She barely registered her robe slip open and the disarray he was causing to her appearance.

When she opened the door to his room, reality came crashing down. He was intoxicated and draped over the housekeeper. The lack of propriety was astounding. He quickly removed himself from her.

"Thank you for escorting me Mrs Hughes," he stood stiffly at the threshold. Before he could apologize for his awful behaviour, she had wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. Not really knowing how to respond, he let one arm wrap around her shoulder while the hand holding the lamp remained limp at his side.

"Never forget that you are not alone," she whispered in his chest.

She started to pull away as quickly as she had hugged him, but his arm kept her in place. Bringing the light up to finally take her in, Carson was shocked to see how tired she really was. He cursed himself for not noticing her grief stricken features earlier. She had remained stoic all through the day, comforting everybody else, that she had completely neglected to confront her own pain.

"Never," he reassured her.

A single tear escaped, and he caught it with his thumb and brushed it aside. He pulled away slowly, and she released a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. "You should get going," he whispered, placing the lamp back in her hands.

She nodded wordlessly and disappeared down the corridor towards the door that separated the two halves of the servant's quarters. Her feet moved quickly along the cold, hardwood floor. Eventually, she made it to her room where she silently opened her door. Unbeknownst to her, another door closed right after hers shut – the occupant of the room across the hall had witnessed her sneaking back into her room in the wee hours of the morning.

Mrs Hughes collapsed on her bed and she finally allowed herself to cry. She shed tears for the young man who had lost his life before his time, the young boy who would never know him, and the woman who was no longer a mother. She thought of poor Lady Mary and the warmth that Matthew had known that was sure to be replaced by ice. She hugged a pillow to her chest and silently prayed that Lady Mary would eventually thaw for the sake of the child.

They were not her family, but that did not mean that she wished tragedy upon them.

And because carrying the weight of the world is exhausting, sleep soon overcame her without her noticing. It was only a few hours later, when Mrs Hughes was roused by the scullery maid's quick rap on her door, that she realized she had managed to get some sleep. Groaning, she hugged the pillow more tightly and buried her face into it. The morning had come too soon.

After quickly getting ready, Mrs Hughes took her seat at the Servant's table. Other than the kitchen staff who ate separately, she was the first to arrive. Everything felt heavy, her head, her arms...The knife she used to spread butter on her toast must have weighed a ton. For a brief second, a feeling of regret passed over her. She really shouldn't have wandered the house all night; she knew that it would take days, maybe a full week, before she fully recuperated. However when Alfred came slugging into the kitchen with his eyes half shut, she stifled the feeling. There had been others who had needed her.

Soon, Jimmy and Thomas appeared, and a gaggle of maids followed soon after. Soon, the table was full, Mr Carson being the last to arrive. Other than a few muttered greetings, the staff ate in silence.

The first of the bells rang, signally the beginning of another hectic day. It saddened her how sad it was. Although Matthew Crawley had died, it was just another day.

She managed to catch Mr Carson before he went to serve breakfast.

"Mr Carson," she called out as she descended the stairs and he ascended them. His pace slowed until they were were standing with two steps between them.

He looked up at her, his brow furrowing quizzically. "Yes, Mrs Hughes?"

"How are you?" she asked softly.

"As well as can be expected," he responded. Searching her face, he found that her eyes were still slightly puffy. "And yourself?"

"The same," she shook off the small bitter smile that had briefly appeared. "Do you remember what I told you last night?"

"I could never forget."

She nodded her head. "Good."

Without any further ado, they continued with their daily tasks. Mr Carson continued up the stairs, and Mrs Hughes continued down, passing a lurking Miss O'Brien at the foot of the stairs. The heavy atmosphere that weighed heavily on the house prevented Mrs Hughes from chastising the ladies maid as she normally would have.

To her credit, O'Brien had a legitimate reason for being at the foot of the stairs, but the scene that had unfolded before her had stopped her in her tracks. Their encounter had been brief, but poignant and it left her mind reeling. Had they always stood that close together? O'Brien frowned as she recalled a dishevelled housekeeper slip into her room sometime between late night and early morning. She hadn't given it much thought then, but evidently the woman had been with Mr Carson.

A little bit further down the hall, but still within O'Brien's earshot, Mrs Hughes pulled Thomas to side.

"Did you have any luck, Mr Barrow?" she asked him, referring to his insomnia.

Slightly startled that she was bothering to talk to him, he simply nodded.

"I'm glad to hear it," she said with a reassuring smile before walking away. An icy laugh escaped O'Brien as soon as the housekeeper was out of earshot.

"You're just made of luck, aren't you, Thomas?" Miss O'Brien taunted. She knew that he fancied himself as a victim, but in all her years, she had never come across anybody as lucky Thomas Barrow. No matter the cards that were dealt, he always managed to get away with anything.

She absolutely despised him for it.

"It's Mr Barrow to you," he said through clenched teeth.

"Of course. How could I forget? You're a mighty underbutler now!"

"I suppose I should be thanking you," he replied evenly, walking closer to her. "It never would have happened without you."

He had expected her to scowl and have a vile retort. Instead, she smiled sweetly. It was pure saccharine – it set Thomas' nerves on edge. "And you best remember that..._Thomas_."

She turned on her heel and continued on her way. Thomas remained behind for a moment and followed her up the stairs.

In all his years working at Downton, Sarah O'Brien had taught Thomas Barrow one very important lesson. It was possibly the most important lesson of all.

_Keep your friends close; keep your enemies closer. _


	2. October

_**~October 1921~**_

Sarah O'Brien had always prided herself on being observant. Coupled with her analytical and clever mind, she always noticed everything. She had the ability to read people and situations and adapt to them. It was these skills that helped her be selected by the local chatelaine whilst still at school to become a ladies maid. Since then, she had learned to use her skills to her advantage.

Which is why she hated herself whenever she missed something that should have been obvious.

She had somehow completely missed whatever it was that was brewing between the butler and housekeeper. How she had missed this development was beyond her. How long had they been at it? It must have been a recent development, otherwise she would have noticed sooner.

However, glaciers moved faster then those two. Maybe she missed it because it happened so slowly. Like the frogs she and her brother used to catch that never noticed the water boiling. When the water temperature change occurred gradually over small increments, the frog hadn't noticed. But when they dumped a frog in already boiling water, it had immediately jumped out.

Maybe that was what had happened to her. Maybe the change in Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes' relationship happened at a pace that was too slow to notice.

Alternatively, she may have been too focused on other things that she neglected to realize that anything was amiss. But the point was moot.

Now that she had noticed it, O'Brien saw it everywhere. The way that Carson and Mrs Hughes stood a little too close when walking to church, the knowing looks passed over breakfast, the way she grabbed the crook of his arm at Mr Crawley's funeral...

Possibly the most scandalous behaviour of all, was the shared glasses of sherry at night. Everybody knew that it was the butler and housekeeper's daily tradition to meet at the end of the day and discuss house business, and as a result, nobody dared to disturb them. But going over households did not require sherry or laughing or offhanded statements layered in meaning. The discussions O'Brien had overheard over the past few weeks most definitely straddled the line of impropriety.

She had kept her observations to herself and slowly began to build a reservoir of information. Having the right information was key. Although O'Brien had no solid evidence that there was anything improper between the butler and housekeeper – everything she had witnessed was purely circumstantial – it did not mean that it was invalid.

She sat on her observations for weeks – collecting, organizing, and not really knowing how to proceed. It was on a cool autumn day when the beginnings of a plan had come to fruition.

She had just stepped outside for her morning smoke break. A cigarette hung from her lips as she searched her pockets for her lighter to no avail.

"Bollocks," she cursed.

The back door creaked open behind her. Turning to see who it was, she was surprised to see Thomas step out. For the past few weeks, he had been doing everything in his power to avoid her, and yet, here he stood. He lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply, leaning against the wall. O'Brien watched him in envy, and her frustration intensified as she searched her pockets desperately one last time.

"Need a light?" he offered.

Frowning in suspicion, she quickly took it in had and lit up before tossing his lighter back at him. "What do you want?"

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think that I want something?" At her piercing look of disbelief, he relented. "Fine," he sighed. "I noticed some potentially inappropriate behaviour among the staff."

"So?" She took a drag, trying to remain aloof. "Let Carson and Mrs Hughes handle it."

Thomas paused. "That's the problem."

O'Brien closed her eyes and leaned against the wall next to Thomas. "You've noticed it too."

"I'm surprised you haven't had them sacked yet." The bitter undertone did not go unnoticed by O'Brien."

"I don't have a problem with either of them."

Thomas eyed her. "So you've considered it?"

"I don't know what good it would do," she snapped. "They'll be sacked, and then they'll be replaced. And that is much to risky for my liking."

God forbid Anna and Bates get the positions. She would never have any peace.

"What if we fixed who got the positions?" Thomas suggested.

O'Brien laughed humourlessly. She could not believe that after his promotion, he still wanted to climb up the ranks. "And why would I help you become butler?"

"Because it would leave an opening," he said simply. "An opening that could be the opportunity for Alfred to climb up."

O'Brien exhaled, a swirl of smoke escaping her. She could not believe she was considering this, but. career advancement for her dear nephew was not an unappealing prospect. "And of the housekeeper?"

He smiled at her interest. "I know a woman in need of a job – a Miss Phyllis Baxter," he told her.

"She a good worker?"

Thomas smirked. "And she has a secret that will serve us well."

* * *

On the odd occasion, Carson would overhear the conversations between the other staff and he could usually decipher the goings on from the bits and pieces. They were fast to clam up around him and he would raise a disapproving eyebrow and let it lie. They often forgot that the walls had ears (or maybe they haven't quite learned it yet). And the conversations they thought were only happening between them, were heard throughout the house.

Mr Carson wasn't stupid. He knew that many of the other servant's, especially the younger staff, viewed him as some sort of Other. He knew that they saw him as this imposing, mysterious figure in their lives. They knew very little about the butler; they only knew of his love affair with rules and honour and tradition. Mrs Hughes was the only one who ever relaxed enough to see a glimpse of the man who posed as a butler.

Very rarely did he let it bother him that the other staff – save for Mrs Hughes – were always on guard around him. Most times, he rolled his eyes and put a stop to the servants' stories before the threads they weaved started to spin out of control.

But sometimes it really did bother him.

"Don't take it to heart, Mr Carson" Mr Bates told the butler one day, when a passing comment had floated down the hall. "They really do respect you."

Carson had grunted his thanks in return. He did not show it, but Bates knew that he was grateful for the reassurance. Because knew that James – he refused to call him Jimmy – often expressed his discontent and frustration. He knew that Ivy hung onto James' every word, and that Alfred, and by extension Daisy, were annoyed by it, but they found it inexplicably riveting.

Though he'd never admit it, Caron sometimes enjoyed the gossip as well. Sometimes, he allowed his mask to slip, and he would let himself laugh. Behind closed doors, he let himself indulge and he and Mrs Hughes would share a drink and amuse themselves with stories that their fellow servants had so imaginatively created.

But Carson did not realize that this fascination with him made him a prime target for Ms O'Brien. He did not know how easy it was for her to whisper to the wind and let it carry her words. He did not know the extent of O'Brien's reach, nor of the newest rumours that spread like a virus throughout the house.

She delighted herself in ruffling feathers. Her own feathers were never still; beneath every one was a prying eye, a pricked ear and a wagging tongue. She flew from place to place, filling the sky, standing with her head hidden by storm clouds. She flew quickly, gabbling and screeching lies and half-truths to any that will listen.

She didn't need to say much. Just a few minute observations and a few seemingly innocuous comments. "Doesn't he look tired?"

To which she followed up with some variation of: "I wonder what he and Mrs Hughes do in her pantry all night."

And with that, imaginations ran wild.

* * *

"Mr Carson is incapable of love," grumbled Jimmy one day to the others in the kitchen. "If you ask me, he's too in love with tradition for any woman to have a shot."

"Nobody's asked you," muttered Alfred. Nobody seemed to have heard him.

"He is always so stern at breakfast, isn't he?" Ivy mused, her sympathies for Jimmy shining through. "I wonder if he knows how to relax?"

Daisy rolled her eyes behind the girl's back. "Looks like you're relaxing when you shouldn't be. Those eggs aren't going to mix themselves, you know!"

A blush crept across Ivy's face and she resumed her task.

"Mr Carson's not that bad, you know," Alfred piped up. His posture was a little bit straighter as feigned confidence, but his scarlet ears gave away his uncertainty. "He's stern but fair."

Jimmy's cocky grin fell at Alfred's words. "You're only saying that because he likes you."

"You're only saying that because he _doesn't_ like _you_."

Before the confrontation escalated, Mrs Patmore appeared at the door, stomping on the kindling that was threatening to catch fire. "And what kind of work do you call this?" she asked in disbelief, causing everybody to scramble.

Mr Carson appeared behind her. "Are they giving you any trouble, Mrs Patmore?" His baritone voice cut across the room. Carson knew that the cook had it under control, but only he possessed the power to clear the room with one look.

When the footmen were gone and the kitchen staff no longer distracted, Mrs Patmore turned to him and sighed. "I don't know know if I'm getting more impatient as time goes on, or if they're getting more impertinent!"

"It might be a combination of the two."

"Well now I'm in no mood to help you." Mrs Patmore shot him an unamused glare and placed her hands on her hips in mock anger. "What do you want?"

"Did Mrs Hughes say when she would be back from the village?" he asked, trying to downplay his concern. "I need to talk to her about something."

"Soon, I should think," replied the cook. "She's been gone for hours."

"It looks like it's going to rain," Carson shook his head in an attempt to clear away his worries. Ominous clouds had rolled in and painted the once blue sky grey. "I'm sure she'll be fine."

Mrs Patmore frowned. Maybe there was some truth in those rumours she had been constantly dispelling. She wondered if they were even aware of their existence.

"What is it that you need to speak to her about on her day off?"

"It's a personal matter," he huffed. "It's really not all that important."

He turned on his heel leaving the concerned cook behind in his wake.

_Not all that important?_

Yeah right. And she was the Queen of England.

* * *

Carson had been right. It rained. That in itself wasn't an unusual weather event, but the combination of factors had made the Mrs Hughes' walk back from the village particularly horrendous. The temperature had dropped steadily every day as summer became a distant memory, and as a result, the rain was cold and the wind behaved violently. The wind blew against her, making her face turn red. Her hands were clammy and the tips of her fingers and toes were numb.

Mrs Hughes cursed as her umbrella flipped inside out for the third time. She fought to turn it the right way and snapped it shut. It was pointless. She was soaked through to the bone. There was no part of her that had not already been drenched. Her hat was a sopping mess on top of her head and did very little to protect her hair from disaster. Pins had fallen out a long time ago and the flyaway stands were plastered to the back of her neck. Her clothes were saturated with water and clung to her body with every move she made. With each step, her feet squished in her boots.

The hidden sun must have been hovering just about the horizon by the time she returned. She entered through the back door, her squeaky boots and clamoring teeth announcing Mrs Hughes' arrival. She leaned against the wall and undid her muddy boots with shaking fingers and tossed them to the side. It would do no good to trek through the house in those dirty boots. She would deal with them later.

Still shivering, she sighed and closed her eyes. She pulled off her ruined hat, tossing it in the same direction as her boots, and ran a hand through her tangled hair.

"There you are!" Elsie opened her eyes to find a concerned ginger woman with her hands on her hips. "You're a mess!"

Mrs Hughes rolled her eyes at Mrs Patmore's acute observation.

Mrs Patmore opted to ignore it. "I'll get Anna to run you a hot bath, and don't worry about the mess –" she gestured to her haphazard pile "– I'll get Ivy to clean it up later."

She sneezed in response.

Mrs Patmore blinked. "Don't you dare get sick!" She didn't think Mr Caron would be able to handle a case of pneumonia. She turned on her heel to leave and find Anna to get that bath started.

Much later, once Mrs Hughes had changed and was much warmer and reading in bed, there was a tentative rap on her door. Curious, she opened her door to find Mr Carson standing with a tray.

"You shouldn't be here." She was only stating a fact. She pulled her gown tightly around herself.

"You shouldn't have been out in the rain," he responded pointedly. "Without an umbrella, I might add."

She conceded that yes, maybe she shouldn't have been. So she took the tray with a small thank you and he slipped the hall door.

Despite everybody's best efforts, Mrs Hughes still got sick. It was not bad enough to make her bed ridden, and not enough for Dr Clarkson to be called. But her sneezing and her running nose was enough for Carson to be her annoying keeper.

She was not a child. She was a grown woman. She was _not _dying. She was merely afflicted with a pesky cold – it was hardly the end of the world. Mrs Hughes was still completely capable of fulfilling her duties. However, Mr Carson did not seem to agree. He took her load as his own.

It was utterly ridiculous. _He_ was being utterly ridiculous. He had enough to do on his own. Mrs Hughes kept telling him that he did not need to be bothered with the household accounts. He did not need to keep bringing her tea every few hours. For goodness sake, he needed to stop thinking about her all the time.

Elsie Hughes wasn't stupid. She knew that her illness and Carson's reaction to it was fueling the fire that had inexplicably started burning in recent weeks – the rumours of her and Carson. The snippets that she had managed to make out painted a very scandalous, very untrue picture.

But perhaps there was a sliver of truth in the rumours that plagued the house. Perhaps Charles Carson could really love Elsie Hughes. Perhaps she could potentially really love him too...

Perhaps she already did.


	3. November

_**~November 1921~**_

Thomas watched quietly from the sidelines as the story of Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes transformed with each telling. He was rather amazed by the ingenuity of some of the rumours and by the sheer ridiculousness of others. For the most part, the staff knew better than to take the rumours at face value. They knew to take it with a very large grain of salt.

"I find it highly improbable that they've been secretly married for the past 20 years," Thomas overheard a maid say one day. "But the fact that it wouldn't surprise me, is definitely telling."

A satisfied grin plastered itself on his smug face. The plan was coming along swimmingly.

It wasn't enough to have rumours of an affair flying around. It wasn't enough to have the family suspicious. Gossip could be hand waved without any further explanation. Inappropriate dalliances could be easily denied.

But a great tragic romance? Years of restraint and denial? That was more difficult to disprove.

It was certainly much harder to prove. But the thing about rumours was that it didn't matter if they were true. People just needed to believe them. And because Lady Cora was in charge of the hiring of firing of household staff, she needed to believe the rumours over the the word of her housekeeper and butler. In order for that to happen, Thomas and O'Brien needed her to see the signs for herself. It was now up to O'Brien to plant the seed and water it daily so it would grow.

They met outside frequently to avoid Carson's watchful eye and catch each other up on the progress of their plans. In the midst of all this scheming, Thomas had found himself regaining a smoking buddy.

He absolutely despised it.

It was nothing like old times. Their easy rapport was gone, replaced by veiled insults and double-meanings and mock concern for each other. But their interests were aligned – for now.

Alliances between empires had been built on much shakier ground.

O'Brien knew that he was not the type to forgive and forget, so she watched him warily and always rushed back inside as soon as she possibly could. Meanwhile, he tolerated her presence. Just seeing her set his nerves on edge. He breathed a sigh of relief whenever she left and he was no longer forced to be on his guard.

He knew it would all pay off in the end. He was ready for his revenge. He was ready to see her fall.

* * *

O'Brien helped Her Ladyship dress for dinner, much like she did every night. Cora rolled her black gloves up her arms while O'Brien carefully pinned her hair. And like every night they talked because Cora loved to gossip, and O'Brien thrived on it.

"I can't believe it's been two months," Cora sighed.

"Mr Crawley's death was hard on all of us," Miss O'Brien told her employer. She reached across the vanity and grabbed a handful of pins in one hand.

Cora remained still as her ladies maid took a strand of hair and pinned it into place. "How is the atmosphere downstairs now?"

For a brief moment, O'Brien's hands froze. She glanced up at Cora's reflection and found her blue eyes peering back at her, patiently waiting for an answer.

"I won't be insulted if you tell me that they are no longer in mourning," Cora hurried to clarify. "I don't expect them to be."

"Milady," she began and carefully put a hairpin in place. "I don't mean to spread gossip..."

Lady Cora watched O'Brien's movements through the reflection in the mirror. Realizing that she was clearly mulling something over, she prodded. "O'Brien, if there is something happening downstairs, don't you think I ought to know about it?" Concern layered her words.

The opportunity was perfect. O'Brien had struck gold.

"I don't want to name names, but I do believe that two of the staff downstairs have become quite... familiar since Mr Crawley's passing," O'Brien finally relented. "Overly familiar."

She looked up to gauge Cora's reaction. Her blue eyes had widened significantly at this bit of information. Cora spun around in her seat to face O'Brien. Her legs hung off the side and her hands gripped the back of her chair.

"You mean to suggest an affair?" The questions rolled off her tongue in hushed tones as if she was worried that the walls would overhear. "Between whom?"

O'Brien paused. It was too soon accuse them formally and she didn't want it coming back to her when Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes would inevitably deny the charges. She only wanted to plat the seed in Lady Cora's mind and watch it grow.

"You should realize, Milady, that this is all speculation; I have no evidence. It's all hearsay. I do not wish to indicate somebody on false grounds as it would only make fools of the rest of us."

Cora tiled her head and thought about it. If O'Brien told her the identities of the suspected parties, she would have to act, even if there was no concrete evidence. It would be best to avoid making Downton a house of scandal, especially since it was already a house in mourning. By not revealing the identities, O'Brien was sparing her the onus of having to act on potentially false accusations.

"Of course, O'Brien. I didn't meant to put you in an awkward situation," Cora nodded in understanding. "However, if anything comes up... _anything,_"she emphasized, "you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

"Of course milady."

Cora smiled,"I can always count on you." She turned back to face the mirror and allow O'Brien to finish doing her hair.

* * *

Later that night, Cora sat in bed reading a book. She must have read the same paragraph three or four times before Robert came to join her.

"Robert?" she said as he slid under the covers next to her. "O'Brien told me something today and it's been weighing heavily on my mind."

He frowned in concern. "Oh?"

"She says that she thinks that two of the staff might be... involved."

Robert frowned and turned face his wife. "That is a very serious accusation."

"I'm afraid it's my fault. I pushed her into telling me," Cora rushed to clarify. "She hesitated to tell me because she said there was no real evidence and she didn't want to bring unnecessary scandal to Downton."

"How considerate."

Deciding to ignore the sarcasm, Cora continued. "Now I can't stop thinking of who it might be."

"It's probably one of the younger staff." Robert yawns. "You know how young people are these days."

"Oh Robert," Cora sighed. "That's not a fair assumption."

"No? What about that footman, James?" he pointed out. "He seems like he would be quite the heartbreaker."

Cora thought about this. "He does have very nice hair." Robert raised an eyebrow at her admission. "But how on earth would he manage to seduce a young girl under Carson and Mrs Hughes' watch?"

Unless...

"It's Carson and Mrs Hughes!" she cried, slamming her book shut. "They're the ones having the affair!"

Robert laughed at the thought. "You really think that_ Carson_ is capable of carrying on an illicit affair?"

"Well, not when you put it like that," she muttered. Cora placed her book on the table next to her.

"Just thinking about Carson in love, let alone having an affair is ridiculous," he chuckled again. "Carson and Mrs Hughes...really, Cora."

Sinking back into her pillows, Cora conceded that it was a crazy notion. Perhaps she was wishing for something happy to happen. The house has been covered in gloom for too long, and would be for a very long time. It was nice to to have something other than death to think about.

"I suppose I'm looking for a distraction," she admitted.

"And I don't blame you," Robert leaned over and turned off his lamp. "I am glad that you've found something other than Matthew to think about. Just don't let it go to your head."

Rolling her eyes at his statement, she reached for her lamp and let the darkness engulf their room.

"I suppose in the off chance that O'Brien is right, we'd have to fire them," Cora sighed as she curled up against her husband. "Even if they were good workers."

"A good servant wouldn't do something so scandalous," Robert yawned. His eyes were already closed. "Take Bates and Anna, for instance. They did it properly."

"Of course! Their courtship was completely free of scandal," Cora muttered dryly, thinking back to the situation with the former Mrs Bates.

"Not their fault," he muttered, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her close. He was already drifting off. "Horrid ex-wife."

Cora smiled against him. He always did have a soft spot for his valet.

"I'll talk to Mrs Hughes in the morning," she decided. Hopefully a conversation with the housekeeper would shed light on the situation.

Robert merely grunted in response.

* * *

"You called for me, Milady?"

Cora looked up from her embroidery to see Mrs Hughes waiting expectantly at the entrance of the drawing room. She placed her work down on sofa next to her and stood to greet the woman. "Mrs Hughes! I have a matter I wish to discuss with you."

Mrs Hughes took a tentative step forward. "Of course, Milady."

"It's been brought to my attention that there might be some inappropriate behaviour among the staff downstairs," Cora said. She watched Mrs Hughes' frown slightly at this.

"Some of the younger staff have been entangled in a love triangle of sorts, if that's what you're referring to," Mrs Hughes admitted, carefully weighing her words. "However, nothing has come out of it."

"How can you be so sure?" Cora's curiosity shone through.

Mrs Hughes rose an eyebrow. How to explain? "It's all horribly unrequited, like something straight out of a Dostoevsky novel." Realizing it may not have been best to compare the Daisy-Alfred-Ivy-Jimmy situation, to a novel by the Mad Russian, Mrs Hughes rushed to clarify, "Except they are innocent and naive, and the furthest thing from mad."

"And you're _sure _that nothing else is going on among the rest of the staff?"

"Not that I know of, Milday," Mrs Hughes shook her head. "Are you thinking of somebody in particular?"

Cora scrutinized Mrs Hughes. She genuinely seemed to have no idea what Cora was alluding to. Perhaps Robert was right and she was imagining things. Or... Mrs Hughes was very good liar.

Perhaps she ought to let it go.

"No, nobody in particular," Cora shook her head. "I am glad that servants always well behaved. I suppose I have you and Carson to thank for always upholding the dignity of the house."

Was it her imagination, or did Mrs Hughes tense up for a brief moment?

"Thank you, Milady," Mrs Hughes said evenly. Her neutral mask remained firmly in place. "We do our best."

* * *

That night, Mr Carson poured Mrs Hughes a glass of sherry and asked her about her day. They sat at the table in his pantry, the light on the table between them casting elongated shadows on the wall.

"Mr Bates is concerned about Miss O'Brien's and Mr Barrow's newly reformed friendship," he told her as he sipped the red drink. "He thinks they're up to something."

Mrs Hughes raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Carson nodded. "What do you think?"

"They used to be thick as thieves..." she sipped her drink and paused, thinking of the hell the woman had put upon the former footman over the past year. "You know, she was the only one he wrote to when he was at the front."

Carson leaned back in his chair. "Nothing good ever comes from them," he lamented.

"Nothing truly awful comes from them either," she pointed out. "Surely, you're not suggesting that they are not allowed to have_ friends_?" Carson huffed, placing his glass on the table and she laughed. "Are you so unsure about your ability to keep them in check?" she teased. She took another sip of her sherry and a thought suddenly struck her. "Speaking of which, I spoke to Her Ladyship today."

Carson frowned not understanding the correlation.

"She thanked us for always upholding the dignity of the house," Mrs Hughes explained.

She left out the part about Cora's suspicions about an affair downstairs. Poor Mr Carson would blow a gasket at the mere thought of something inappropriate happening under his watch.

"It's nice to have our efforts recognized," he said, offhandedly. He leaned back in his seat and took his cup in his hand.

She traced the rim of her cup with a finger. There was something about that perceived compliment that had grated on her nerves and if anybody would listen, it was Mr Carson.

"Sometimes I feel like the rules are suffocating me," she finally admitted softly.

Carson's eyebrow shot up at her timid confession. She almost regretted telling him. She knew his views on rules and tradition.

"They exist for a reason," he said gently. "Everything would fall apart without them."

"I know," Mrs Hughes sighed. She knew that was how he would respond. "I didn't mean anything untoward."

"What _do_ you mean then?"

She took a breath. She might as well tell him. "Sometimes I wish that I could ignore the rules and be close to somebody." She looked into her cup, shying away from him. "It's silly."

"A very wise woman once told me that I am not alone," he reminded her. "I should think that they same goes for her."

"Being alone and being lonely are different."

He tilted his head to the side. "I disagree. The same principles apply."

She finally looked back at him across the table. "What do you do when it happens?"

"I remember that I have you."

Such a simple phrase tugged at her heart strings because Mr Carson was wrong; he did not have her. They couldn't ever be anything beyond housekeeper and butler. They couldn't even really be friends because there would always be something in the way – an imaginary construct like rules or the notion of propriety, or a physical object like the table that stood between them at that moment. No matter how close they got, there would always be something separating them. No matter how close they got, he would always be too far away.

But she didn't tell him that. Instead, she nodded, told him he was right, and buried her feelings underneath a smile.


	4. December

_**~December 1921~**_

This year was to be the second year in a row without the Servant's Ball. With Matthew's death only three months behind them, the house was still in mourning. Christmas would be a quiet affair, much like it had been the previous year after Sybil's passing. There would be no mingling, no dancing and joyous music and no special feast. .

Mrs Hughes supposed that she should try to count her blessings. There was one less thing to plan. However, it really was quite a shame that Christmas would again be a divided affair. They would still be given their time off, but Downstairs would stay downstairs, and Upstairs would remain there. Of course, some from upstairs would perhaps stop by to pay their their respects for a few minutes, but it wouldn't be the same.

Despite the lack of a Ball, the Christmas spirit was still catching. Mrs Hughes had placed a wreath on the back door, and had returned to find that the maids had decorated the servant's hall with bright ribbons, and that Daisy had put up some fairy lights along the stairs. To think that the young girl used to be terrified of the vapours.

Much to Mr Carson's horror, and everybody else's amusement, mistletoe kept mysteriously appearing over doorways.

Mrs Hughes told him time and time again that it was harmless. Mr Carson, on the other hand, ignored her, and declared an all out war against the plant.

Somebody once told her that while mistletoe was toxic, if prepared properly, it could be used to alleviate high blood pressure and anxiety. It seemed to have the opposite effect on the butler. He ranted and raved about it every night. There was no sense of propriety anymore; today's youth was doomed. And when he discovered who the culprit was, there _would be consequences_!

Mrs Hughes rolled her eyes and scoffed at his antics which only served to make him more flustered. It was a vicious cycle she didn't feel the need to break.

"Why don't you get Alfred to do that?" Mrs Hughes found the butler standing on a stool fighting with the new incarnation of the devil spawn. He wasn't usually found standing on stools since he was already incredibly tall, but this particular plant seemed to be fused to the doorframe and he couldn't quite see how to get it down.

He jumped, startled at the sudden interruption and promptly smacked his head on the doorframe.

Mrs Hughes rushed to his side and helped him down the step. "Oh dear! Are you alright?"

He grunted and rubbed his head.

Without thinking, she brought a hand to his head and ran her fingers over it to make sure a bump was not forming. She felt him stiffen at her touch and she quickly pulled her hand away as if she she had been burned.

"Mr Carson, as amusing as this is to me, I can't have you killing yourself over a plant!" she scolded. "Get one of the footmen to do it! Better yet, get _Alfred_ to do it. You need to learn to take advantage of his height!"

Carson's eyebrow shot so far up his hairline. "Mrs Hughes, may I point out that it was probably one of them that put this up in the first place. And even if they didn't, how can they to be trusted to not take advantage of the situation?"

At this incredulous response, Mrs Hughes sighed, hiked up her skirt and took his spot on the stool to inspect the plant. Carson immediately moved to steady her as the stool wobbled under her steady movement.

"And what sort of situation are you implying?" she mused, her fingers running over the doorframe to see how the mistletoe was being held.

"Don't be ignorant, Mrs Hughes. It doesn't suit you," he said. "You know full well that if they were here under the mistletoe, and a pretty young girl came along, they would press their advantage."

She could feel his breath tickle where her neck met her shoulder as she inspected the plant. She felt his hand ghost the small of her back as he kept her steady. She carefully turned to look at him and placed a hand on her hips. For once, she was taller than him.

"And how are we to be trusted to not press our advantage?"

"I am a gentleman! I would never!" he gasped in mock horror. "And I should hope that you are a lady who would never engage in such behaviour either!"

A mischievous grin spread across her face. "Oh Mr Carson, you should know by now that I am anything but," she laughed. She leaned over and planted a small kiss on his cheek.

It was just so tempting.

A pink flush crept from the tips of his ears and across his face. He opened and closed his mouth a few times trying to think of something to say to her. He knew that he should have been mortified at his undignified fish-like response, but he was too shocked to feel anything.

Satisfied with his stunned reaction, she reached up and pulled the mistletoe down in one quick motion. She took his limp hand and placed the plant firmly in his grasp, wrapping his fingers around it so as to not let it fall.

"Oh Mr Carson," she bit her lip knowing that there was very little else that was holding back hysterical laughter. "Don't be so serious all the time."

She stepped off the stool and sashayed away, leaving a very perplexed butler in her wake.

It was only when Mrs Hughes had walked down the corridor and rounded the corner towards her sitting room that the weight of her actions dawned on her and her amusement was quickly replaced with regret.

She had kissed Mr Carson.

_What on earth had she been thinking?_

She collapsed at her desk and dropped her face in her hands. Embarrassing Mr Carson was always guaranteed to be a highly amusing activity, but she had gone too far. Much too far. There was a line and she had ran, hopped, stepped and jumped over it.

Elsie Hughes was an idiot.

She was not worried about him taking offence because had a proven track record of taking offence at everything and moving on. She was more worried about somebody _seeing_. Without a shred of evidence, many already thought that she was his mistress. Some misguided souls even believed that she was the secret Mrs Carson.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at her door. She looked up, expecting Mr Carson, but instead found Mr Barrow standing with his chin held high.

"How may I help you, Mr Barrow?"

He hesitated for a moment. "Can I have a word with you, Mrs Hughes?"

"Of course," Mrs Hughes nodded, putting a hold on her racing thoughts. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Not here." His eyes shifted to the air vent on her wall. "It's about a rather – _sensitive _– matter."

"Alright, Mr Barrow" she sighed and stood up. She was not in the mood for his riddles. It would be much easier to comply. "Where to?"

For some reason or another, she trusted him to lead her through the maze of corridors until they were in the attic where the old and unused items were stored. They had agreed that if anybody were to ask, they were hunting for old decorations, but nobody had asked. When they arrived at their destination, Mrs Hughes found an old wooden chair and blew the dust off of it and sat down.

"What is so confidential that you had to lead me away from civilization to discuss?"

Thomas pulled out a matching wooden chair and wiped the dust off with his gloved hand. "I saw you and Mr Carson in the hall," he said matter-of-factly. Her eyes widened in horror and what she knew he knew. "I saw you_ kiss_ him."

She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, stifling the panic that had arisen within her. When she opened them, her hard gaze was fixed on the underbutler across from her.

"I suppose you're going to blackmail me then," she said evenly.

Thomas snorted. "You really should start thinking more highly of me, Mrs Hughes."

She ignored this and continued to glare at him. "What do you want, Mr Barrow?" she snapped. "Do you want me sacked, is that it?"

"And what good would that do me? I like having you around," he scoffed. "You're the only one who can keep Carson off my back."

"Why are we having this conversation then?"

"To be perfectly honest Mrs Hughes, I am concerned about Miss O'Brien."

"What?" Mrs Hughes blinked. This conversation was not making any sense whatsoever.

Thomas took a cigarette out of his pocket and twirled it between his fingers without lighting it. She frowned slightly at his audacity.

"You must have noticed the rumours by now. They have really become quite spectacular," he mused.

"There are always rumours."

"Not like this, Mrs Hughes."

His vague statements were starting to grate on her nerves. "Mr Barrow, just come out with it already," she said roughly. "I'm tired of your riddles."

"Do I really need to spell it out for you?" he sighed, a little disappointed at the appalling amount of ignorance and denial she seemed to possess. "Miss O'Brien loves a good rumour. There have been many as of late. Therefore..." He trailed off, and waved his hands, waiting for her to fill in the rest.

Realization dawned on her. "She spread all those rumours." It wasn't a question, just recognition of the facts. Suddenly it all made sense. The sudden fascination with the housekeeper and butler. The knowing glances the maids always gave her... "She is trying to slander our names."

"Bingo..." he said dryly. She narrowed her eyes. He could have just said so.

"I don't know what you think I can do about her," she said flatly, wringing her hands in her lap. "I have no authority over ladies maids."

"To be quite honest with you, Mrs Hughes, I don't think you are in a position do anything at all," Finally. The first bit of real honesty in this conversation. "O'Brien is fiercely loyal to Her Ladyship; she would never let her got without just cause."

"I could tell her she's trying to slander our names."

"But you would also have to explain the origin of the rumours," Thomas pointed out. "And then you'd still have to explain what you were doing in Carson's room the night of Mr Crawley's death."

If she had been thrown off by his comment, she did not let it show.

"What is the point of this conversation then?" She brought a hand to her temple and sighed.

Thomas shrugged. "I just thought you should know."

"Why?" the question trailed off her tongue. Although he was being especially annoying, he was telling her a great deal when he had no obvious reason to do so. She knew that Thomas Barrow well enough to know that he was notorious for only ever having initiative when he was guaranteed a reward. He was not one to put others before him.

"Because for some reason, I like you," he admitted, stiffly. Her eyebrow jumped at his uncomfortable confession. "And I know what it's like to be close to love and not be able to have it."

"I don't love Mr Carson." The words were out of her mouth in a flash.

Thomas' piercing gaze matched hers. He resisted the urge to scoff. Mrs Hughes' response was quick and firm and much to defensive. She was only fooling herself, he thought. Perhaps she tried not to love Carson – not because she was heartless, but because she had too much heart. Mrs Hughes was empathetic by nature; she loved deeply and she loved thoroughly.

Love was awful and messy and unkind, and it was sure to tear her up in side. If anybody was to understand Love's fickle nature, it was Thomas.

"I don't believe you," he said. It wasn't an accusation. It was a statement.

Mrs Hughes bit her lip harder to hold herself back from lashing out at him. She knew that he didn't necessarily mean anything by it, but his audacity was completely off putting.

She stood up and smoothed out her dress. "Mr Barrow, if you wish to remain employed here as underbutler, I suggest you keep these opinions to yourself."

"I was only stating facts," he said, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'm on your side."

For some reason, she doubted that very much.

She turned on her heel and marched out of the attic with purpose. She hesitated when she got to the bottom of the stairs. Mr Carson was rushing by the bottom of the steps carrying something-or-other. He slowed down when he saw her. He nodded his acknowledgement and continued on his way. Her hand gripped the railing tightly causing her knuckles to turn white.

She was less angry at Thomas for riling her up than she was at herself for allowing herself to become a victim. She hated that Thomas could read her so easily. Was she really that transparent? Who else could read her?

She knew that Mr Carson most definitely could.

She wondered for a brief second if he knew, but brushed the thought as quickly as it had come. What a stupid thought. Of course he knew. He knew very well that she cared about him, just as she knew that he cared for her.

She wondered for how much longer they could feign denial.

* * *

Days later, Carson knocked on her sitting room door and let himself in before she even had a chance to respond. While the Christmas Festivities were not to officially begin in the Servant's Hall for a few minutes, many of the others had already begun.

"Are you coming, Mrs Hughes?"

She glanced up from her notebook to find him waiting at the door expectantly. Her eyes darted to the clock that hung on her wall. "Oh goodness! Is it time already?"

"Almost," he nodded. He surveyed the slew of papers on her desk. "I'm surprised you can get any work done amidst the ruckus in the halls."

She closed her notebook and started to quickly organize her desk, putting pages together and placing them carefully in their respective places. "I can't believe I lost track of time," she muttered.

She had been losing track of time a lot lately, Mr Carson noticed. "Is everything alright?" he asked tentatively.

Her hands stopped for a brief second, but she still did not look at him. "What do you mean?" She opened a drawer and placed a folder inside of it.

"I've noticed you've been rather distracted lately," he tried. She had been ever since that incident with the mistletoe. He wondered if her discomfort stemmed from that, whether she was upset with him... but that did not make any sense. She had to bite her tongue to keep herself from falling apart from laughter. He debated bringing it up for less than a second, before dismissing the thought. It was the sort of topic best left forgotten.

Mrs Hughes slammed her drawer shut. "Everything is fine, Mr Carson," she said more harshly than she had intended.

He raised an eyebrow. Something was most definitely weighing on her mind. For the past week, she had been a ghost of person. She had been going through the motions, but something about her was off.

"I do not believe you, Mrs Hughes," he stated honestly. Annoyance, but not frustration, flashed in her eyes. "But if you do not wish to discuss it, I will leave it alone."

Stunned, she nodded. "Thank you."

All he wanted was acknowledgement, and she had just given it to him with two little words. He did not need to know what was bothering her. He trusted that she would tell him when she was ready.

He hoped that she would.

"It's a shame that they won't be able to enjoy the Servant's Ball this year," she remarked off-handedly, in an attempt to change the subject.

"It is indeed a shame." The sounds of Jimmy's piano playing and the maids' giggles floated in from the hall. "But I'm sure they'll make the most of it," he said.

Mrs Hughes stepped around her desk when she had deemed it to be clean enough, and was surprised when Carson offered her his arm. "It has been ages since I've danced, Mrs Hughes. Will you do me the honour?"

Mrs Hughes eyed him warily. She really should not accept his offer. But he looked so hopeful and lost and his big brown eyes were begging for her to accept. She sighed dramatically and took his hand.

She never could refuse him.

She placed a shaking hand on his shoulder while he tentatively placed his free hand on her waist. She took a deep breath to try to calm her racing mind.

He smelled of aftershave and silver polish.

They shuffled back and forth. What they were doing didn't really constitute as dancing.

One step forward. Two steps back. Shift to the side.

Her sitting room was too small to allow any other movements. She closed her eyes and bit her lip. She wanted so badly to be closer to him, but she would not let herself. Could not let herself.

Sensing her discomfort, Carson pulled her closer so she was flush against him. She sighed and reluctantly relaxed against his him, letting her head fall onto his chest. He wished she would just tell him whatever was bothering her so he could try help in some capacity.

"Oh Mrs Hughes..." His chest rumbled when he talk. "What is bothering you?" he wondered aloud. He did not mean for her to respond; he knew she wouldn't.

She knew it killed him to see her like this. "I can't tell you," she whispered.

She felt him pull away. She opened her eyes to find his searching her face for answers. She took a step back away from him. She could not handle him caring about her right now. She might end up letting him.

"We should join the others," she stated matter-of-factly. "They'll be wondering where we are."

Carson nodded in agreement and straightened his livery before following her at a respectable distant. It may have been Christmas, and they may have had part of the day off, but they were still the heads of the household. They still had a job to do.


	5. January

_**~January 1922~**_

On the first night of the year, Carson saw a ghost draped in black roaming the halls. He had been sitting in his pantry, when he noticed her float by, still dressed for dinner. He stood up and hovered by his door, watching, waiting to intervene.

"Lady Mary?" he finally called.

She turned slowly at his voice. "Good evening, Carson."

"What are you doing down here?"

"I can't sleep," she stated simply. "To be perfectly honest, I hadn't even noticed that I had come down here."

Carson fought to keep from frowning in concern. He hadn't had much of a chance to see how she was doing. The only news he had of her was from eavesdropping during conversations, from what the other family members told him. From what he had been able to piece together

"Would you like to come in," he motioned to his pantry. "and join me for some tea, Milady?"

She considered it for a moment. "I would like that very much, Carson."

She entered his pantry and took a seat at the table against the wall. He brought a tray over and poured her a cup. She noticed that he already had it set up for two.

"Do you always expect my company, or is it only tonight?" she inquired as she took her cup from him.

Carson hesitated slightly as he poured his own cup. He was not about to admit the true reason to Lady Mary. "It's always good to be prepared," he told her instead.

She blew on her tea. "I'm glad."

Carson watched her for a moment and sipped his tea. He scrutinized the young woman seated across from him. The young girl who had grown into a woman who had suffered so much. She was detached, aloof. Everything that was said to her glided right over her. But behind all that, there was a layer of pain that needed to be confronted. Carson knew that if he pushed, she would push back. So he waited patiently for her to give him an inkling of what was triggering her grief tonight.

"Matthew asked me to marry him on New Year's."

Comprehension fell on Carson. He nodded and waited a moment for her to continue.

"Everything reminds me of him and all I want to do is forget." Carson's face melted in understanding at her words. Lady Mary glared at him in response. "You don't understand, Carson. Don't pretend that you do."

"I understand more than you give me credit for."

"You can't possibly understand," she snapped. She placed the cup on the table and got ready to stand up. "You've never been in love."

His expression hardened. "I am not a stranger to love, Milady."

She fell back against her chair and choked back the guilt that surged through her, and threatened to slip through the porcelain mask she carefully wore. He knew her so well, yet she barely knew a thing about her favourite butler.

"I'm sorry, Carson," she said."I didn't know." She fixed her gaze onto something just above his right shoulder. "I just always assumed..." she trailed off. Carson knew what she had assumed. It was what everybody always assumed: he was the butler; he didn't love.

He hummed and took a sip of his tea and she knew she was forgiven for her impertinence.

"I don't think I'll ever get over him," she admitted softly.

"You will, Milady," he reassured her. "Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but you will one day."

"You sound like Mama. She says that at least I'm young enough to remarry and have a life with someone else." Her laugh was hollow. "I don't think I could ever love anybody again."

"You might."

"And then what? Have two great loves of my life?" she dismissed him. "Look at Edith – she can't even have one great love. I'm lucky enough that I had Matthew."

He thought about Alice and the love of his youth. The torch he carried for her, and the pain that it caused him. That love was messy and awful and beautiful all at the same time. For a long time he thought that that was it, that he could never love another woman again.

"It's possible, Milady," he said softly. He voiced the knowledge that he wished had known in his youth.

"And how do you know that, Carson?" her eyes searched his, needing, but not wanting to believe.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I just do."

"Did you ever love again?"

Carson considered it for a brief moment. He remembered late night conversations shared over tea and sherry, the barbs they always shot at each other over breakfast. Mrs Hughes' sheepish smiles, knowing glances, and the tears he would always wipe away. He remembered his arms around her, and her lips on his cheek. The fluster when he did not know how to respond, and the amused grin on her face when he behaved exactly as she had expected.

Did he love again?

He shook his head. "I can not – " _He was the Butler._ " – but you can_._ "

Mary did not believe him, not yet anyway. Carson hoped against hope that one day she would look back at their conversation and believe.

It was the first night in many nights that he had had some company. He had been hoping that Mrs Hughes would come by. He did not understand his hope; she had not come by in a few weeks... not since before Christmas. Why would she bother to come by tonight?

In any case, he was glad for Lady Mary's quick visit. When she left for bed, Carson sighed and leaned back in his chair.

He had not realized how much he missed Mrs Hughes until he found himself sharing her tea with somebody else. Deciding that it was enough, he marched out of his pantry, and let it succumb to the darkness.

Yellow light escaped out of the bottom of her sitting room door. He opened it cautiously to find her at her desk, holding a pen to a paper in her right hand, and cradling an empty wine glass in the other.

"By all means, come in, Mr Carson," she bit sarcastically when noticed him.

"You've been drinking," he blinked, taking in the scene in front of him.

She turned to face him. "Yes, I do that on occasion. Horribly improper of me, isn't it?"

He stood awkwardly in the middle of room, allowing himself to be scrutinized by her sullen stare. He clasped his hands behind his back, and shifted his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet and back. He had so much he wanted to say to her, but he did not know where to begin.

"You've been in a mood for weeks, Mrs Hughes," he finally said. "You've been short with everybody, especially Miss O'Brien and Mr Barrow." She rolled her eyes at this. "I'm sure that whatever they did deserves your scorn, but you are not one to hold grudges." He held up a hand to stop her from retaliating with some sassy comeback. "Strangest of all, you've been avoiding me! I want to know why."

She suddenly felt the need for another drink. "I don't know what you're talking about." She reached for the wine bottle and poured herself another.

Carson huffed. There it was again. Avoidance. Why did she have to be so difficult?

"I refuse to start off the new year like this, Mrs Hughes." He tried to show conviction, but he knew that he failed. Dark shadows highlighted the dark bags under his eyes. He was tired of skirting around issues and stepping on egg shells around her.

She knew this. She knew this and she allowed it to continue for her own self-preservation. "I'm sorry," she admitted, weakly. She knew he was looking for an explanation, not an apology, but she had nothing else to give. "It's not cancer, if that's what you're wondering."

He shook his head. "Why are you pushing me away?" he said.

"I'm not," she defended herself quickly. He raised an eyebrow at what he perceived to be a blatant lie. She hurried to clarify. "I'm not letting you in. There is a difference."

He was flabbergasted at her attempts to justify herself. "Do you really believe that?"

"Mr Carson, with all due respect, I need to to believe that," she said harshly. She tossed back her glass and found that it didn't taste quite as appealing anymore. She closed her eyes and pushed her glass away. "It's for the best."

"I disagree." His response was quick and brutally honest.

She laughed bitterly. "I can't believe _you_ of all people are saying that."

"I don't know what you mean," he responded stiffly. "Caring about somebody is not improper."

"Mr Carson, look at us!" she cried, waving a hand back and forth between them. "We're tangoing over the line of propriety!"

Carson winced. The tango was a most unsuitable dance. His cheeks flushed and he clenched his jaw tightly. "I don't know what you mean, Mrs Hughes," he finally said, echoing her earlier attempt at ignorance.

"No. You wouldn't," she sighed and brought her head to her hands. A lock of hair escaped from a pin, framing her face.

To Carson propriety was synonymous with comfort. The problem was that whatever it was that they were doing was comfortable... Dancing with him, kissing him, every intimate moment felt like home.

She hesitated. "Do you know what they've been saying?" she bit her lip, immediately regretting bringing up the topic.

He tilted his head, confused. "There have always been stories," he stated.

"Do you know what they've been saying about _us_?" she tried again. He shook his head slowly and wondered if he even wanted to know. She began listing off the rumours that she knew of, her voice raising with each one. One sordid secret after another. "Apparently we've been carrying on like criminals in the night. I had your love child in secret and gave it up. Some think that we _married_ in secret. And those who fancy themselves to be realists bemoan our tragic love..." She paused. There were sure to be many others. She leaned forward on her elbows and watched his reaction carefully. "Tell me, Mr Carson, how on earth is that not improper?"

"It is when you put it like that!" His face was flushed, his disapproval beating out his discomfort. "Need I remind you, Mrs Hughes, that we have not broken any rules. These are stories. Stories that are based on fiction and not reality."

"But they believe it without question," she looked down at her hands and bit her lip. "They are ready to believe that it could have happened. Shouldn't we be worried about the impression that we give? "

"But we're friends." Carson stated the one thing he knew to be true. He said it as a last resort in the hopes that she would stop with the nonsense she was spewing.

"No, we're not, Mr Carson," she sighed, burying the guilt that overcame her with each word. He was not letting himself understand the truth of what she was implying. But he needed to hear it and she needed to say it so they could stop with the ridiculous pretence. "You are the Butler and I am the Housekeeper and we are colleagues. Nothing more." Her words were cold, calm, calculated. An ice shard through his heart.

"Is that really what you think?"

"No."

He threw his hands up in defeat. "You're drunk. You have been drinking and you are nonsensical."

"Had I not been drinking, you would have discounted everything I was saying because of my womanly hysterics," she said pointedly. "It doesn't make it any less true."

He finally allowed himself to sit down in a chair opposite her. His legs felt weak under the weight of what she was saying.

She took a breath, bracing herself for what she was about to say. "We mean more to each other than we should," she finally whispered, her eyes still not meeting his. "We're jumping through loop holes, you and I."

"What do you want me to do?" He looked at her for answers. Any clue as to how he was supposed to go on with – or without – her.

She wanted him to make it hard for her to love him. She wanted him to let her love him.

"I wish I knew." Mrs Hughes finally up looked at him and met his gaze. Part of her was somewhat reassured that he looked as lost as she felt. The other part struggled to keep her heart from shattering into a million little pieces. "Oh Mr Carson, what are we going to do?"

Carson rubbed the weariness away from his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and pinched the bridge of his nose."I suppose we will have to go on as we always have."

Mrs Hughes nodded in cautious agreement, all her worries erased – hidden – from view. They would go on as they always had...until it was no longer enough.

* * *

Sarah O'Brien leaned against the brick wall, a shawl haphazardly draped over her shoulders. She and Thomas were not intending on being outside for a long period of time. Just long enough to satisfy her nicotine craving.

"I don't understand what happened." Her fingers were red and numb, trembling slightly in the cold wind. Thomas, meanwhile, was perfectly pristine. Apparently the cold did not affect him.

"Nothing has happened," replied Thomas. "That's the problem."

O'Brien glared at her partner in crime and exhaled a cloud of grey smoke. Everything had been going according to plan. Carson and Hughes had been closer than ever before, but now, a frost fell upon any room they were in together. "Something happened, I tell you. Everything was fine until about a month ago."

"You obviously miscalculated something," Thomas shrugged and pursed his lips. "Maybe it's time to concede defeat."

O'Brien's eyes narrowed at this slight. "It's just as much your plan as it is mine."

He shook his head. "It may have been my idea, but you came up with all the logistics," he pointed out. He tossed his cigarette onto the frozen ground and crushed the embers with heel of his perfectly polished shoe. "Don't feel bad. Many of your other plans have fallen through. This isn't a special case."

"Says the one who lost his life-savings on plaster," she muttered under her breath.

Thomas paused. "I lost my savings; Her Ladyship lost her baby. I'd say we're both prone to making mistakes," he shrugged.

O'Brien's heart stopped beating for a moment before resuming at faster pace than ever before.

Thomas continued, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort, but she knew he was revelling in it. "Is that why you're so loyal to her? Sarah O'Brien feels _guilty_?" She remained silent and flicked her cigarette. "You do!" he mock gasped.

"I'm not heartless, Mr Barrow." To the casual observer she seemed to be the ideal picture of calm. It was her eyes that gave her away. Fury, rage, guilt, frustration, disappointment. Betrayal.

"You could have fooled me," Thomas mocked. "I've always wondered why you put up with her. She is not brightest, is she? She never seems to know what is going in her own house..."

The air around her was sizzling. "You better watch what you say about Her Ladyship." She threw the her cigarette butt and crushed it with her toe. She spun on her heel but his next words stopped her.

"How long are you going to let it dictate your life?" She remained frozen with her back towards him. "It's been eight years."

Sarah clenched her jaw. "This conversation is over," she hissed.

She took another step, her boot crushing the little bit of snow that dusted the landscape, and resumed her journey back inside.

"Miss O'Brien!" a notable Scottish lit called as soon as she walked in. O'Brien closed her eyes and groaned. She turned on her heel to greet the housekeeper. A smile resembling a grimace was plastered on her face.

"Yes, Mrs Hughes?" Miss O'Brien said, feigning politeness.

"I have a letter for you." The housekeeper quickly shuffled through the small pile she was carrying and picked it out. Thanking her, she took the letter and waited for the other woman to leave before tearing it open. She frowned when she noticed who it was from.

Lady Flintshire.

O'Brien folded the letter carefully in eight parts and slipped it in her dress pocket. She did not need to read it to know what it contained.

* * *

With Miss O'Brien's letter delivered, Mrs Hughes had officially delivered all of them, save for the ones addressed to Mr Carson. Had she not stopped to deal with every little emergency possible, (and every errand she could have probably done at a later time), she already would have dealt with the letter delivery. She supposed she could have delegated the task to somebody else, a footman perhaps, but she did not. Those pesky emergencies had to be dealt with, she kept telling herself, but she would ensure delivery. She was most definitely capable of dealing with this simple task.

Because nothing was off. Nothing was different. They were going on just as they had before.

Eventually all of her excuses were spent and she had to knock on his door. "These came for you, Mr Carson."

He stood from his desk, and took the small pile in hand. "Thank you, Mrs Hughes."

Mrs Hughes nodded. That was that. She turned on her heel, and exited, exhaling a small sigh as she left the room. Meanwhile, Mr Carson sat back down at his desk, and ripped opened the envelope. His eyes quickly scanned over its contents and he immediately crumpled it and tossed it in his waste basket.

And they both went on with their days.


End file.
